


to knock them down

by bluestockinginc



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Multi, Revenge, Tragedy, tags updated as story is - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestockinginc/pseuds/bluestockinginc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short fanfictions, at least partially inspired by prompts from outside sources.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. concordia

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from asoiafkinkmeme: She sits on the Iron Throne, Westeros won, when her palm is cut by the rough edges.

I am the blood of the dragon, she thinks as her bannermen filter into the throne room. None of them can touch me now.

She does not allow a smile to grace her lips; she is the warrior queen. They bow before her; Starks, Baratheons, Lannisters, and Tullys. Traitors, all of them; they destroyed her family, destroyed her future. Justice should be dealt. Justice must be dealt.

She can hear Drogon crying from the Dragon Pit, miles away. Viserion joins his cries, screaming for their lost brother.

Screaming for blood.

Soon, little ones, Danaerys Stormborn thinks, Soon.

\--

"Even the little children?" Illyrio asks, his fat quivering in trepidation. The rest of her councilors are equally dismayed, murmuring insolence about the smallfolk and earning love.

But she does not have to earn love; she has fear, and vengeance. She thinks of her niece and nephew, the little prince and princess she never even met. She thinks of her son, and the murder that failed (but he was so close). Dany smiles coldly. "Even the little children."

\--

The day of the trials dawns windy and cold. Slick ice covers the gallows -- little Shireen Baratheon slips on her way to the noose, but Sansa Stark grabs her arm, and she thanks her quietly. Tommen and Myrcella Hill wear Lannister crimson and gold, little lions dancing across their chests, and their uncle-father winks at Dany suggestively.

They die simultaneously, snow drifting down from the sky in a quiet lullaby. The Northerners face the sword, as per their request, and the Southron lords and ladies the noose.

Danaerys holds a great feast that night, in honor of the new Targaryen rule. They know better than to betray me now, she thinks, as the stained glass window behind her heats from the spectacular display of dragonfire happening in the yard. Blood and gold and love can't touch her now.

She bites her lip in pain when the throne cuts her hand, and a maester is on hand to bandage it right away.

She ignores the pointed look shared between Willas Tyrell, the new Lord of Highgarden, and Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne.

I am the blood of the dragon, she thinks as the blood begins to clot. None of them can touch me now.


	2. i gave you all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From asoiafkinkmeme: "With every stab, she names a crime. The list of the ones she knows is short, so she continues by naming all of the people she's lost."
> 
> (prompt slightly changed)

The first one is the hardest.

She stands there for minutes, hours, days. A shadow in the corner -- her dark hair hides her pale face well enough, so it's only her blue eyes that show, luminous like moons in the relative darkness of his room.

He sleeps unmoving, like a corpse. Hands at his side, jaw clenched, a sudden eyelid twitch the only sign that her Lord Protecter had not spontaneously perished without even her intervention. His stillness would unnerve her if she focused on it, but Alayne's thoughts are far away. They always are, these days.

The knife warms under her hand, stealing the heat from her hands and replacing it with cold. The Eyrie is always cold, and she can feel the freeze settling in her limbs. Winterfell was always warm, even when she was little and a Springtime chill was in the air. She could wear Southron silks and never catch a cold, assuming she didn't leave the building and her mother and father allowed it. They never did. 

Alayne thinks she understands why, now that they're dead.

She takes a step forward, suddenly courageous, suddenly a wolf. Or maybe, she always was.

"Come to bed, sweetheart?" he says with a lazy grin. She inhales sharply.

And stabs.

"The was for father." she says, eerily calm, even as the red blood leaps out to meet her black dress. Lysa only owned one, a high necked gown meant for mourning, and now it's ruined.

"And Robb." She twists.

And pushes it in, hilt deep. "Bran and Rickon."

She finds his heart, tiny, broken thing that it is. "My sister, Arya." She isn't sure if Arya is actually dead, but she'll only get to do this once, so she should. Shouldn't she?

And, with a small gasp and all the strength she can manage, the girl pulls the dagger out. Her face is an icy mask, unsmiling, unforgiving, "My mother, Catelyn."

His face pales as blood gushes out of the wound. She blinks, and he is gone.

Alayne wipes the dagger on his tunic and smiles, breaking her composure for the first time since it began. "And Sansa Stark."


End file.
